


the unspoken things

by simplyclockwork



Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [32]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Husbands, M/M, Sherlock is a serial killer, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:35:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22604839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Prompted by bilbon-socket on Tumblr with the following request:Hey! If you're still taking prompts, could you write a thing where Sherlock and John are married but sherlock is a serial killer and john doesn't know and angst?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Tumblr Inspired/Prompted Sherlock Fics - Part One [32]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1528859
Comments: 12
Kudos: 46





	the unspoken things

**Author's Note:**

> Not as much angst here as the prompt requested, but I will likely write a few more chapters eventually, and add more tags. Not too mature at the moment, but retaining that rating for future aspects. For now, it can be a stand-alone.

Four years of marriage, and John thought he knew him. Believed he was as familiar with the person his husband was as he was of himself.

Confidence is a strange thing. You never realize how fragile it is until something tears at the foundations.

Sherlock was always strange. It was who he was, part and parcel of the genius who swept John off his feet right from day one. Sherlock was a madman, a bloody, brilliant sociopath, a wicked, East-bound whirlwind of energy and thrumming, burning focus. John loved him. Loved every senseless, outlandish thought that man conceived. Even when Sherlock drove him up the wall, threatening to topple their world with his own careless apathy, John loved him. Time and again, they pulled through. Overcame. Overlooked. Forgave and forgot.

Until they didn't.

The day before their fourth anniversary, John's foundations were shaken. Toppled. Desecrated and destroyed, leaving behind dust and ash, the taste of blood in his mouth. He woke to sunlight and twisted sheets, a repetition of years gone by. Stretched out a hand and brushed Sherlock's warm back, fingers trailing over the solid ridge of his bent spine where the detective lay curled into himself, legs tangled with John's.

"Morning," John breathed, sitting up with a crick in his neck and love in his throat as he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to Sherlock's bare shoulder. "Sleep well?"

Sherlock's response, a low, thrumming hum, was muffled by his face pushing into the pillow. John's soft laugh ruffled dark curls, and the detective wriggled his rear back against John's stomach. At his body's first stirrings, John dropped a heavy groan into Sherlock's neck, stroking hands over his sides, breath wet and warm as he mouthed over Sherlock's jaw. When he slid his fingers down to Sherlock's chin, making to turn his face and find his mouth, a loud knock at the sitting room door startled them both. Sherlock jolted against his chest as John sat up, body tense.

"Mrs. Hudson must have let someone in," Sherlock murmured, eyes grey and cloudy as they looked at one another. John saw his own thoughts reflected in those miasmatic irises, both wondering who would knock in such an aggressive fashion if Mrs. Hudson knew them well enough to let them up the stairs. The knocking repeated. Forceful, harder, a persistent staccato rhythm against the old wood.

"Sherlock!" The voice was edged with desperation and familiar to both their ears. They looked at one another, Sherlock lifting a brow.

"Lestrade?" he said, frowning as John slipped off the bed, pulling on shorts and a housecoat.

"Must be urgent." Tossing Sherlock's robe at him, John patted the curve of his arse. "Come on, get up. Let's see what he wants." Leaving Sherlock to dress and compose himself, John padded down the hall, bare feet whispering over the wood floor. When he opened the door, his welcoming smile dropped off his face, lips parting as he took in the group of officers clustered on the landing. "Lestrade, what...?" John's words dwindled, dissipating in the tense, charged air as the DI pushed his way into the flat. Donovan and Anderson followed on his heels, with several other vaguely familiar officers.

"Where is he, John?" Lestrade's hollow voice made the half-formed thoughts in John's head scatter, leaving behind the dull thudding beginning of a headache in his temples.

"Sherlock?" John glanced down the hall. "He's getting dressed, should be out in a second…" his eyes flicked over Lestrade's hard face, over the tense, wary postures of the others, and his breath caught in his throat. "Is something wrong? Is Sherlock in danger?"

The look Lestrade shot his way was sharp steel, his eyes softening minutely at John's evident confusion. "You don't know, do you?" he asked, the words incredulous, ragged with an underlying edge of pity and apology. The tone made John shift, body bracing for impact as his mind raced, digging for explanations.

"I—what are you..."

"Lestrade?" The deep voice emerged from the hall, John's head jerking up as Sherlock stepped into the sitting room. Lestrade's shoulders twitched back, chin rising as the officers with him shuffled, uncomfortable but controlled. John's eyes flickered to Donovan and Anderson, who both appeared uneasy but resolute. Looking back to Sherlock, he found a dark, shuttered expression on his paling face.

"So," Sherlock began, arms rising before falling to his sides with a resigned air. "You figured it out."

Lestrade's mouth twisted, a grim expression that spoke of little joy. "Yeah, we did. It took…it took us too long, but we got there. In the end." The words emerged tight and strangled, and John stared between the two men, panic rising in his chest.

"What's going on?" he demanded, hands twitching into fists. Neither looked at him, the DI and consulting detective locked in a hard stare.

"Are you going to make this difficult?" Lestrade asked softly. His hand hovered at his side, Sherlock's sharp eyes following the movement. He glanced at John before turning back to the DI.

"No," he replied, almost a whisper. "No, I won't."

"Good." Lestrade stepped forward, pulling a set of handcuffs from his belt. When Sherlock turned, meek and compliant, to offer his hands behind his back, John's stomach plummeted.

"What the _fuck,_ " he snarled, taking a step forward, every inch of his body tensed, "do you think you're doing?!"

"Don't interfere, John," Lestrade said, his quiet voice strained, his face tense with stress.

"Like _hell_ I won't!" John snapped his arm back as hands grabbed at his shoulders, catching Anderson in the chest with his elbow. The man stumbled back with a groan as John moved toward Sherlock and the DI, hands reaching for the handcuffs. Lestrade raised his head, shooting him an uneasy look, but it was Sherlock who broke through the red fog blurring John's vision.

"John," he said, calm and restrained. Only a low tremour of tension betrayed his turmoil, tightening the skin at the corners of his eyes. _"Don't."_

John fell still, caught awkwardly in place as his foot slammed to the floor, the impact jarring through his body. Hands landed on his shoulders and arms, restraining him with hesitant force. But it was no longer necessary, the initial fury draining away as he stared at Sherlock. At his husband. The man he thought of as the love of his life.

Blood rushed in his ears, a dull roar, as Lestrade read Sherlock his rights. "Sherlock Holmes, you are under arrest for suspected murder." The bottom of John's stomach dropped away, a hollow ache filling his chest as the words washed over him, and Lestrade went on. "You do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

"I... you can't," John protested weakly, knees beginning to shake. "You can't arrest him for something he didn't do."

Sherlock lifted his head, looking over at the man quivering in the grip of several officers. At the stalwart soldier. The man who had always stood at his side, even here, even now.

The man who had never known the truth.

"John," Sherlock said, repeating the name. "I'm sorry, John."

If not for the hands holding his shoulders and arms, John would have collapsed. His legs gave way, and he slowly slumped to his knees, disbelief pouring from his open mouth as he shook his head. "No, Sherlock... I... Sherlock?" The detective could only stare back at him, a pained expression twisting his sharp features. With his hands cuffed behind him, Lestrade's fingers locked around his forearm, Sherlock's lips parted, empty and frozen. He shook his head, and something sharp and icy ripped through John's chest.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock repeated, and John felt the world tilt as his foundations were ripped away.


End file.
